We are sitting at lunch when my daughter casually
mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family."
"We're taking a survey," she says, half-joking. "Do you think I should
have a baby?" "It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping
my tone neutral. "I know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends,
no more spontaneous vacations...."

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying
to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never
learn in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical
wounds of child bearing will heal, but that becoming a mother will
leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be
vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper
without asking "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane
crash, every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures
of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than
watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think
that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce
her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent
call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a souffle or her best crystal
without a moment's hesitation.

I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested
in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood.

She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into
an important business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet
smell. She will have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep
from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

I want my daughter to know that everyday decisions will no longer
be routine. That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room
rather than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma.
That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children,
issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against
the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.

However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself
constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually
she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the
same about herself. That her life, now so important, will be of less
value to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a
moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more
years -- not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child
accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will
become badges of honor. My daughter's relationship with her husband
will change, but not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand
how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby
or who never hesitates to play with his child. I think she should
know him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout
history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving.

I hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues,
but become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear
war to my children's future.

I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your
child learn to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh
of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or a cat for the first
time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real, it actually hurts.

My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed
in my eyes. "You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reach
across the table, squeeze my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer
for her, and for me, and for all of the mere mortal women who stumble
their way into this most wonderful of callings. This blessed gift
from God . . . that of being a Mother.